


Lighted Cigarette

by WolfaMoon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Burns, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:52:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfaMoon/pseuds/WolfaMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never cared for them but he buys them because he loved them. A vice to crave. A vice he uses now to feel again. After 2x03.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lighted Cigarette

Lighted Cigarette

BY: Wolfa Moon

Summary: He never cared for them but he buys them because he loved them. A vice to crave. A vice he uses now to feel again. After 2x03.

Disclaimer: Don't own nor concede with his use of them.

Lighted Cigarette

Lighting the cancer stick he watches the embers burn red. A vice that was not his own but in a way they had become one. This little rolled up stick of nicotine the vice of his fallen friend. Now his vice. People thinking he began to smoke because of his pain of lose. They would allow him that. What he did next they would not. He rolled up his sleeves past his elbow. Looking down at the spatter of burnt holes on his flesh. Making almost a constellation of the great archer Orion. Laughing on the inside he places the cigarette burning red down on the middle three. Three that have scarred and bubbled over time. Always starting there. For there they hurt the most. Representing something he had lost. Moving along the dots to feel the burn and pain. The only thing he had left to feel.

The others came by to check on him. Lestrade taking him out for a pint or to watch the game. Mrs. Hudson making dinner. Sitting with him for tea. Letting him stay above for himself and herself. Mycroft would stop by. That was more one sided yelling match. He knew of John's vice of self harming. Hating to be a factor in that. For he had turned on his brother. His mummy shunning him. He had broken too. Yet for the doctor it was much worst. He lost his reason for being. Sure he practiced his surgery. Just to pay the bills and live. All earnings going toward rent and cigarettes, tea. His limp becoming more pronounced again. Arm aching all the time. The war had come again to claim lives on the home front.

The cigarette all but gone. Still half a pack left. They lasted so long. The smell another reminder of who he is missing. Opening the windows he goes to clear the air. Looking around. Skills he had learned from a great man. Even with all the slander it didn't disrupt the image he had of one Sherlock Holmes. The dark car sitting across the street. Mycroft and his honor of protecting what was precious to his brother. His only friend. Moving away to go back inside. He needed more cigarettes. Needed more tea and maybe some biscuits. He has lost weight. Walking the streets. Even the homeless network that he knew through Sherlock seemed to keep and eye on him. They would follow and smile at him. He would buy groceries and leave them in familiar spots. The only time he bought real food. They knew that. Finding takeout calls for him delivered to his front door. Smiling at the group across the street. Even the artist tagging homage to every place a person that Sherlock helped. Keeping the faith.

The door rang. Probably another takeout. This time courtesy of Mycroft. He isn't hungry anymore. The person rang again. Maybe Mrs. Hudson would, no she was at her book meet.

"Go Away!" he gruffed. Knowing they wouldn't hear but made him feel in command of his life. They could leave it on the step. Moving to go to his bedroom. Almost there the door opens. "Mycroft, go away!" almost to his room.

"John?" pausing at the door. No it was just a play in his ears.

"Leave it in the fridge, Mycroft." He enters his room. Closing the door he goes to bed. It's his day off. He'll do what he always does. Laying down on the bed he presses hard on the burns. The pain enveloping him like a blanket. A welcomed blanket of feeling.

The door opens. He doesn't look.

"I told you to leave."

"John?" John opens his eyes to see the image of a man who was his friend. Who became a martyr. It steps closer. The eyes moving over him. He almost touches. Rolling out of bed to get away.

"No no no. It's not you. Mycroft's having one on me. What that man won't do. Tell Mycroft to pay you I don't need this."

"John it's me."

"Yeah and I'm Arthur Dent." The Sherlock wannabe shakes his head at the reference.

"John."

"Mycroft. MYCROFT! I KNOW YOUR DOWN THERE HAVING A LAUGH. GET UP HERE NOW!" he was having none of this. He had gone too far this time. Backing further and further away from him. This is a game. A joke. Not funny. "Mycroft call off your dog." Praying desperately to see the shrud man come in and escort the actor out. He didn't come. The Sherlock came closer. Trying to get away.

"John please listen to me."

"Why should I your dead. I don't have to listen." Sherlock sighed heavily.

"Please," the man tried with some emotion.

"No, No NO. MYCROFT!" he ends up in the corner. No escape. He slides down. His hand pressing down on the warrior burning constellation. The pain there fading. The adrenalin rush evaporating the pain away. Why is he doing this? The man steps closer to him. If the nightmare won't go away. Raising his hands over his head. Hitting his head into the wall. Each one harder then the last. Trying to get the world to go dark.

Soft long delicate hands reach him. Grab a firm hold. Placing one to become a cushion between him and the wall. This evil creature not allowing him to leave. He wants to scream again but he cannot. No one will save him.

"It's me John." John shakes his head in denial. The man sighs frustrated. He had caused this.

LCLC

Mycroft had watched his brother observe John at the gravestone. Knowing it to be wrong to allow his brother a vice. Knowing it would bring danger. Worst then it already is. The thing is. Is it worth keeping the secret if the one you are keeping the secret for is fading away to nothingness?

Sherlock had seen, had suspected. Especially when Mycroft would remain silent when Sherlock asked about John. Knew John is not handling this well. His one and only friend. Still hurting him even after trying to save him. Just killing him more slowly then the swiftness of the bullet they promised to shoot.

Sherlock smelled the nicotine as he entered. John didn't smoke but he was buying them. Watching the CCTV of John. The only way to watch him. Mycroft letting him. Visiting him. Finally confronting him on why he is buying cigarettes.

'John Does NOT SMOKE!' he told his brother with rage when he remained silent on one of his ventures to visit his friend, his friend.

'He is burning himself.' The answer hitting like the bullet. The pavement coming up fast upon him again.

He has had enough. Facing John. Much paler then on the screen, thinner too. And his eyes widening in fear. Screaming for his brother as he approached. John scrambling away from him. Smelling the burnt flesh.

John his poor John. His best friend.

LCLC

"John it's me." Pulling the frail man to him. Wrapping him in his arms. So much smaller than he used to be. "I'm here John it's really me. It's me."

LCLC

John wants to believe. But like every dream he would wake up and Sherlock would be dead. A fraud to the world around him. Him the only one to see the martyr. Three miracles in order to be a saint.

1\. Saving the innocent and unfindable.

2\. Surviving death.

One more to go. John looks up through his tears of fear. Sherlock's eyes staring right into his. His hawk gaze taking each other in.

Healing the blind and Sick. Especially his friend. John is the martyr. Believing in the one god while the others throw stones at him for believing in him. Not believing in their lies and deities. The woman who wrote the evils who was coerced by the great evil into slandering him. Making him stand alone. Let the stones come. Let the lions bare their teeth. He has suffered through it all still believing. Yet when he sees. He's frightened.

"Sherlock?" John whimpers into his nape.

"Yes John I'm here."

"I knew you couldn't be dead. I just knew."

Faith.

LCLC

Please Review. TY


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